Page 3 of Melting for the Firefighter

“Then I had better fix her rosemary.”

I remove the offending sprig, replace it with one that understands cooperation, and add the delphinium.

Lance stays near the counter while I work.

His silence settles around me. Comfortable. Steady. It quiets the worry that has been clawing at the inside of my chest since I sent Mom the money.

The old flower cooler ruins everything with a metallic rattle.

Lance’s head turns sharply.

“How long has it done that?”

“A few days.”

“Cora.”

My name sounds different when he is annoyed.

Lower.

Bossier.

Unfortunately, my body is a fan.

“A week,” I admit. “The repairman is coming Tuesday.”

He crosses the shop and braces one large hand against the cooler.

Behind the glass are buckets of blush peonies for a vow renewal, white roses for two memorial orders, blue hydrangeas, and most of my Founder’s Day stock.

Basically, every dollar I have left.

“Come here.”

My body considers that an excellent idea.

My pride makes me hesitate for almost two seconds.

I step beside him.

Lance takes my hand.

All coherent thought leaves the building.

He presses my palm against the metal and covers it with his. His skin is rough and warm. His chest is close enough that I can smell soap, sun-warmed cotton, and the faint trace of smoke that always seems to cling to him.

“Feel that shudder?” he asks.

I feel his fingers between mine.

I feel the heat of his arm against my shoulder.

I feel an ache gathering low in my stomach that has very little to do with refrigeration.

“Yes.”

My voice comes out embarrassingly soft.